Page 61 of The One Night Dash
I see my reflection. I’m a disaster. A smear of cream on my cheek, strawberry juice on my shirt, and—oh God—a full ring of chocolate circling my mouth like a toddler left unsupervised at dessert time.
Dash chuckles, low and warm, and then breaks into that grin that always hits me like a body check. “Tell me you’re writing a scene where her man is rimming her and?—”
“Emmett would never!” I gasp, and his grin turns into that full, blinding Dash Sterling smile.
“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s miss?—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.” His laugh deepens, wicked now, and then he shakes his head and looks confused at the idea of it. “I mean …”
My laugh bursts out before I can stop it, full and loud, making him laugh. “You are filthy.”
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever thought: well, fuck it, let’s give it a taste.”
I grab a napkin and start wiping my mouth. “You’re in public.”
He shakes his head, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “That’s why I shut my phone down earlier. I had to. Otherwise, I’d get carried away with you, and …” He sighs, softer now. “I’m working on that. Promise.”
I swallow, chest tightening at the sincerity under his grin. “I can’t write when I’m worried,” I admit. “And yes, I was worried. And then I worried that I was being needy, which is its own circle of hell.”
His gaze sharpens, serious now even as the boarding announcement blares faintly behind him. “Hey, listen to me. We’ll figure it out. The schedules, the miles, the mess. Doesn’t matter. We’re going to be what I said—gold standard. The couple everyone else measures against.”
I shake my head, a half-smile tugging despite myself. “You really believe that?”
He nods once, certain. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean, sweets. And I meant every word.” His eyes narrow at his screen.
“Everything all right?”
He clears his throat. “Apparently, Coach D is picking me up from the airport.”
I suck in a breath between my teeth. “Ooo.”
“Worth it.” He winks. “Text me later?”
I nod, and the screen goes dark.
I sit there, sticky, ridiculous, and smiling so hard it hurts.
And dammit, I believe him.
SIXTEEN
DASH
Slidinginto the back of the SUV, I see Drew, my agent, and Dean Costello, the man who signs my checks, glued to their phones, not even looking at me.
Coach D’s looking out the window, knee bouncing. She’s pissed. I knew she would be.
I whistle low, leaning back against the leather. “Well, damn, the royal treatment. All that’s missing is a crown and a red velvet cape.”
Dean doesn’t look up. Drew gives me a narrowed sidelong glance but keeps scrolling on her tablet.
It’s Coach D who reacts. She whips her head around, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “Sterling, you think this is funny? The day before the Detroit game. You left a message saying you had a family issue to attend to, and then shut down all communication. How is that acceptable!”
I lift my hands, palms out. “I was joking.”
“Joking?” she fires back, her voice low and lethal. “You vanish and show up with your name splattered all over social media at a wedding because you couldn’t keep your face out of the spotlight, and you want to joke?”
